


Your Own Compass that Turns Night to Day

by pacole



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Erik has Issues, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, robin hood!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacole/pseuds/pacole
Summary: Erik moonlights as a modern-day Robin Hood, robbing the rich and giving back to the poor. Coincidentally, his crush from university, Charles Xavier, is the lead investigator on his case. Correction: hiscurrentcrush.Meanwhile, newly graduated from college with a journalism degree, Marie starts her new job but finds herself pushed to write articles with grievous consequences.The Robin Hood AU that nobody asked for.





	Your Own Compass that Turns Night to Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the X-Men Big Bang Challenge 2019.
> 
> Art for this fic can be found [here](https://bikenesmith.tumblr.com/post/188735673790/xmen-big-bang-xmenbang-art-designedit-for) , made by the lovely bikenesmith!

Erik curses as his fingers slip from the edge, and makes a mental note to buy some grappling hooks as soon as possible. Preferably two days ago, before he decided that it was a good idea to scale a two-storey wall in the dark simply because it has some aprons and sills jutting out.

He repositions his hand and finally heaves himself up onto the roof, where he collapses, staring at the sky. It’s a beautiful night – cloudless, so the crescent moon and the stars are twinkling, incandescent.

He pulls off his gloves to better curl his fingers open and close to work away the stiffness from climbing. He really needs to renew his gym membership. That climb wouldn’t have been half as exhausting last year.

With a sigh, he pulls his gloves back on and checks his watch. Twenty minutes to find the painting and get his ass out of there before the security cameras are enabled again.

It’s quick work to find the room with the paintings (Erik has spent the past two days memorising the exact layout of the building and can probably manoeuvre through it in his sleep) and everything is going absolutely perfectly until he touches the frame of the painting and suddenly hears a short, almost imperceptible clatter coming from behind it.

The _cheapskate. _The bastard had put marbles behind the painting.

No wonder the security system for the painting had seemed inadequate for a painting worth tens of millions of dollars. No wonder this room wasn’t carpeted, like almost all the other rooms out there.

Marbles behind a priceless painting, Erik marvelled. The method used by penniless art galleries. Put marbles between a painting’s frame and the wall, thief tries to take the painting off the wall, the marbles clatter to the ground, everyone in a three-mile vicinity wakes up.

Foolproof. Also, unfortunately for Erik, cannot be foiled by simply disabling all the alarms.

Erik sighs. He takes off his duffel bag and carefully positions the opening beneath the frame. Then, with one hand, he slowly shifts the painting.

A few marbles drop out and into his bag, making barely enough noise to rouse a sleeping baby.

Inch by inch, Erik removes the painting from the wall, letting the marbles drop into his bag in batches. The painting is completely free and Erik is exhaling when suddenly –

A lone marble slips out and positively screeches when it slams against the floor.

Erik winces and swiftly puts his foot on it, then freezes.

He counts the seconds as they tick by. When no one bursts into the room after a minute to catch him in his tableau - his body contorted with one foot stretched out and a hand on an open black duffel bag and another grasping a painting that decidedly doesn’t belong to him – and he isn’t in immediate danger of being marched into a courtroom, he picks up the marble, puts both it and the painting into his bag, and bolts.

He’s retraced his steps to the living room of the mansion when he realises that he really should have left the marbles in the room because they currently sound like a pandemonium of parrots in his bag.

To his left is a (unlocked) sliding glass door, beyond which is a swimming pool, because of course whoever owns a million-dollar painting will also own a private pool.

Erik looks at the pool. The waters sparkle blue and clear, reflecting the moonlight, probably devoid of the sweat and tears and piss in a normal public pool. It’s the very picture of pointless wealth. The entire house is.

Fuck it, he thinks, and throws the marbles into the pool before running off.

* * *

The next day, a bewildered museum curator opens his office door to find a Picasso sitting on the table.

* * *

The first time Erik hears about it, it’s the day after what he’s already calling the _marred by marbles_ _incident_. He’s just gotten home from work and is in the middle of cooking dinner, with the TV turned on in the background, when the news starts talking about him.

Not the first time that has happened, and not that surprising either. Prized painting mysteriously stolen from some rich white guy and donated to a small art gallery on the edges of town. Of course the press would pick up on it. People love a Robin Hood story.

It’s odd to hear himself being discussed, but Erik resolutely continues chopping his carrots. It’s important that he knows what the public and the police are saying about him and his actions.

“…Police suspect that this is the work of a thief who has already stolen over fifty million dollars worth of art and jewellery directly from the wealthy. According to lead investigator Detective Charles Xavier – “

Erik startles, jostling the knife. The carrot flies off the chopping board.

_ Charles Xavier _?

He turns to the television in disbelief. Sure enough, there Charles is, looking like he hasn’t aged a day with his mousy brown hair and bright blue eyes. The only difference is his neatly pressed uniform – Charles, in Erik’s experience, was the epitome of disorder and chaos – and the slight wrinkles around his eyes.

_ Charles Xavier, _ Erik thinks in wonder. The last time he saw Charles, they were twenty-three, and about to part – Charles, for England to continue his postgraduate studies; Erik, for California for his first job. Neither of them knew that it’d be the last time they saw each other, but with their increasingly busy lives the emails had petered out and stopped, and then Erik had had to move back to Germany for a few years –

He misses Charles, he realises abruptly. He misses Charles a lot. Optimistic, charming Charles, his best friend in college, whom he would have followed to the ends of the Earth. Charles, who was one of the few people (_ besides Mama _) who saw past his sullen anger and trusted him like a brother.

_ Like a brother _.

Erik is a man who prides himself on his honesty. He doesn’t run from the truth if he can help it. And the truth that stares right at him, when he’s torn the lies away like tearing a plaster from a wound, is that he had a massive crush on Charles then. Maybe even loved him.

And Erik suddenly realises that he’d never really stopped, even after all these years, after they’d parted amicably with promises of staying in touch but drifted apart anyways. 

But Charles is _ here _. Charles is in the police. Charles is the lead investigator of the team that is actively looking for Erik to put him behind bars.

…Shit.

But the thought that _ Charles is here _clamours for his attention, and he impulsively decides to throw caution to the wind. (His own impetuousness surprises himself sometimes. Seriously, how has he managed not to get caught?)

He googles the address of the precinct Charles is stationed at, works out a route going there from his office, and clears his lunch break tomorrow.

Ten years since he’s last seen his best friend from college. Ten long, long years.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Sir, but Detective Xavier is busy – “

“It’s just for five minutes, I’m sure he’ll see me if you give him my name.”

“Sir, unless you have an interview scheduled, or have any significant information pertaining to the Robin Hood case, I would suggest you come back another day. Detective Xavier is currently very busy working on that case.”

“Why don’t I schedule an interview now? Erik Lehnsherr, to see Charles Xavier at… twelve thirty-three. In one minute. How’s that?”

“No.”

The young officer is looking decidedly agitated now. His face is now closer in colour to a tomato than a human being. Erik smirks.

“What if I have information for the Robin Hood case?”

The officer raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

_ Yes _ , Erik thinks. _ In fact, _ ‘Robin Hood’ _ is standing right here. _

“Yes,” Erik says.

The officer pulls out a form, brandishing it in Erik’s face like it’s a polygraph. “Then you can write down the information you have here, followed by your contact details here, and then sign here, and the investigating team will get back to you as soon as possible.”

“I can’t do that. I have to see Detective Xavier now. I’m a busy man, you understand. I can’t wait for the team to get back to me. This is the only available time I have this week.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Erik is getting tired of saying ‘yes’. Out of boredom, he stares critically at the officer’s shirt, where the remnants of some powdered sugar can still be seen. “How many times do I have to tell you that? Are you hard of hearing? I hear it can be brought about by diabetes, you know, and you do seem to be indulging on some doughnuts. Maybe more than strictly necessary, given your job.”

“Take that back, you son of a bitch!”

Erik smirks. “I’m just looking out for you, man. Maybe you should get yourself checked for diabetes. And maybe some other… diseases as well.”

“Fuck you – ”

“What’s going on here?”

Erik whirls around – that voice! – and sure enough, striding out of the office is Charles, looking exhausted. Erik feels vaguely guilty at being the likely cause for the bags under his eyes.

“Hi Charles!” Erik waves, as if they were best friends instead of ex-best-friends-who-haven’t-seen-each-other-in-ten-years. “Your friend – ” Erik pauses to check the nametag, “John – here wouldn’t let me see you.”

“Sir, this man has been – ”

Charles ignores him. “Erik?” He breathes. “Erik Lehnsherr?”

“Long time no see,” Erik smiles. “Want to grab lunch together? Catch up?”

“I have the case, I can’t abandon the team - ” Charles starts, looking stricken.

“Come on, just for half an hour. They can’t begrudge you lunch, can they?”

Charles face twists in indecision, clearly torn, but then it shifts and Erik knows he’s won before the next words leave of Charles’ mouth. “Oh alright,” he says. “John, please tell the team that I’m heading out for lunch with an old friend and will be back in half an hour.”

John grunts. Displeasure radiates from every pore in his body.

“Let’s go,” Erik says. “Do you know anywhere good nearby?”

“There’s a sandwich place two blocks down,” Charles says. “I go there occasionally. And well – I think they’re kosher too. If you still keep kosher, that is. I know you were… patchy with it back in college. God, that was so long ago.”

“I try to, as much as possible.” _ My mother would have wanted me to _, he doesn’t say.

They’re almost at the door when Erik turns around and _ winks _ at John, who’s barely disguising his rage.

Erik smiles, then turns back to Charles as if nothing had happened. “So, what’ve you been up to? I didn’t think that you’d be a cop. I mean, weren’t you going to study for a Masters in genetics?”

* * *

It becomes a routine; every few days, Erik would drop by the station and pick Charles up for lunch.

On one such lunch date, a week after they reconnected, Charles slid into Erik’s car and didn’t say a single word. Instead, he fixed his gaze out the window and his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“Did something happen?”

“It’s just…” Charles shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

Charles hesitates. “It’s my stepfather. Do you remember him? Kurt Marko?”

Erik has a vague memory of a big man that Charles dislikes and who dislikes Charles in return, who supposedly only married his widowed mother so he could own the Xavier family company. Like a villain straight out of a comic book.

“He got robbed by Robin Hood a week ago. Million-dollar painting stolen. He’s flying into a rage over it. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m leading the investigation.”

“Oh,” Erik says. _ Shit _, he says internally. “Anything I can do to help?”

Charles laughs. “It’s fine, I’ll deal with him.” But he quiets, then adds, “Erik, you know what?”

“Mhmm?”

“I don’t actually want this Robin Hood guy caught.”

_ That makes two of us _. Aloud, he asks, “Why?”

“He’s not really doing anything really harmful, is he? He’s… redistributing wealth to the more needy. And,” Charles laughs again (and _ oh isn’t that the most beautiful sound he has ever heard, _Erik thinks, before mentally slapping himself for acting like a teenager from a rom-com), “Anybody who can piss off my stepfather gets a pass in my book. Have I told you why I stopped pursuing my Master’s in genetics?”

Erik shakes his head.

“Oddly, it’s largely because of Kurt, actually. I was going through my father’s things and found some old copies of ledgers for the company – I don’t know why my father had them – but I was flipping through it and realised that the numbers didn’t match up. I looked into it and I was pretty sure that Kurt was embezzling – probably still is – but when I went to the police they told me that there wasn’t sufficient evidence. They said they’d look into it themselves, but nothing came out of it. So I decided to take matters into my hands.”

Erik laughs.

“What?”

“You said it so matter-of-factly! You changed your entire life plan and your career path and you say it like it wasn’t anything much!”

“Oh, shut up,” Charles rolls his eyes. “Now it’s your turn to share. Why did you move back to Germany after college? I thought you were going to California.”

“It was my mother,” Erik swallows. “Her health was… it was getting really bad. We couldn’t get her better treatment here in the US because at that time I was supporting the both of us and I still had my student loan debts and we didn’t have much saved up and… the flight back was hard but the doctors weren’t sure we should have made the trip but… at least we got her treatment in Germany instead of having to choose between seeing her lose her life day-by-day and seeing ourselves sink deeper and deeper into debt… and I think she was happier for it. She’s buried in her homeland next to my father. She never said it aloud, but I think she preferred that. To spend her last few months in her home country. So, yeah, that’s why I moved back to Germany.”

Charles pauses. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says at last. “I didn’t know her, but I know she loved you very much.”

“Yeah,” Erik says softly. Then, forcing a smile onto his face, he adds, “And that’s how you tell the story of a massive change in your life. Not as if you’re reading a news report.”

“Shut up,” Charles groans.

Erik laughs.

Over the next two weeks, they almost go back to the way they were before, in college, back when they were the best of friends and Charles almost seemed to be able to read Erik’s mind. But there’s an undercurrent of something else, something that can only come from sharing so much time and so much of yourself with each other, like how Charles blushes instead of saying a comeback when Erik quips something innuendo-laden, or how Erik flusters through his relationship history when Charles asks about his personal life.

It almost feels like a natural progression of events when, on one such lunch date Charles tentatively blurts out – blushing from his face to under his collar - that he knows Erik didn’t sign up for this and but he really likes him and maybe they could be something more? And (he added in the same breath) it’s perfectly fine if Erik doesn’t think the same way and they could just be friends but Charles would totally understand if he wants to stop their friendship too but _ please don’t _ –

It also feels like the most natural thing in the world for Erik to lean in and kiss him.

“Shut up,” Erik says, smiling.

* * *

Charles is in love.

That he knows for a fact, and not least because Raven has been shouting it to everyone on the team since he’d walked back in after lunch (with Erik) with, as she puts it, “the expression of a woman who was just told by her friend that she has a spare tampon after her period came suddenly”.

Charles had grimaced at the analogy.

“But, soft!” She’d exclaimed with her hands clasped at her chest. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!”

Sometimes Charles wonders what a drama major like Raven is doing in a police station instead of West End.

“I don’t get paid enough to put up with you,” he grumbles. “And stop quoting Shakespeare. I’m not Romeo.”

“But you’re _ in love _!”

“My love life is none of your business.”

“Look at you, you’re blushing!”

“If only you had this fervour when investigating crimes instead of who I spend my lunches with.”

“I’m the most useful member of the team,” Raven replies dismissively (to which Charles reluctantly agrees), before adding, without missing a beat, “John Allerdyce says that you’ve been having lunch with this mysterious stranger for the past three weeks. He comes and picks you up every day without fail, then when you come back you look like you’ve just been to heaven.”

“Since when did you gossip with John?”

“John says that he’s tall and has auburn hair. Also, he’s apparently a massive dick, but that might just be John being John. Ororo Munroe from HR says that he’s hot and owns at least three different grey shirts. And a hideous magenta one, which he matches with maroon shoes. Terrible fashion sense. Oh, and Scott Summers says that he has a pine air freshener in his car.”

“Do you also know his passport number or something?”

“Just tell me who it is,” she whines.

“Um, Detective Xavier?”

They both spin around, where the forensic scientist, Hank McCoy, is meekly grasping onto a file.

“Just call me Charles,” Charles sighs, because, as much as he’s grateful that he’s saved from Raven’s badgering, this is also the third time today where he’s had to correct Hank. By Raven’s count (though the question isn’t really _ why _ Raven keeps count of such things but why Charles remembers it), he has told Hank to call him ‘Charles’ one thousand, seven hundred, and fifty-three times since the latter’s employment. He doesn’t know whether to pull his hair out or just give up. “What is it?”

Raven possesses not a modicum of Charles’ restraint. “Hank!” She squeals. “Charles is in _ lo- _“

“Shut up, Raven.” Charles bursts out. “Hank, spit it out.”

“Um.” The man in question fiddles with his glasses. “I was – was going through the evidence when I found a – a fingerprint. On the roof of the mansion. So, er, yeah. A fingerprint.”

“He slipped up,” Charles murmurs to himself. “Finally, a lead.”

“It’s erm, scanning now, in the machine. That scans fingerprints. And searches for matches in a database. Erm. It’ll not done yet, but it will be in a short while, but I thought I’d update you first, since I don’t have much to do,” His eyes widened. “Not that I’m slacking off! It’s just that, um, I’m mainly just waiting on a couple of results, and the computers aren’t that fast, which is something that I have a thought about, actually, I think that we can increase the efficiency of our processes by threefold if we optimise the –”

“Hank,” Charles smiles. “Have you had lunch?”

Hank blinks. “No?”

“Then go eat. It’s fine. I’ll go down to the lab in a moment and check the results myself.”

“Oh, um, if you say so – thank you, Detective Xa – Charles.” He ducks his head, then scurries off.

Charles turns to Raven, who still seems to be bursting at the seams.

“Not a peep from you,” he says firmly. “Go and actually be productive. I’ll be down at the lab if you need me.”

For once, she listens to him, and he breathes out a sigh in relief before taking the elevator down.

The quiet dimness of the lab is calming. He’s alone – the lab assistants are on their lunch break too – and so he uncaringly leans back in the chair with his eyes closed, letting his mind wander, jumping from thoughts of Erik to the sensation of the air-conditioning on his skin to Robin Hood to Raven to Erik again…

He’s startled out of his reverie by the beeping of one of the many computers in the lab. This one is loudly declaring that it’s found a match for the fingerprint Hank found.

Charles rushes over eagerly, but when he sees the screen, his blood runs cold.

* * *

Marie takes a deep breath and steps through the lift doors. The newsroom is a buzz of activity: the clank of fingers on keyboards; the ceaseless hum of the photocopier; the rustle of numerous sheets of paper.

She’s still trying to find her bearings when someone knocks against her shoulder.

“Sorry!” Her assailant is a girl around her age, arms laden with stacks of paper.

“Sorry, I’m looking for Ms Emma Frost’s office? My name is Ma—“

Recognition lights up the other girl’s face. “Oh! You must be the new girl. Marie, right? Ms Frost said you’d be coming. Hi, I’m Kitty Pryde.”

“Oh,” Marie says, at a loss for words. “Nice to meet you, Kitty.”

“Ms Frost’s office is just there,” Kitty says, gesturing to a room tucked into a back corner. “Good luck. Ms Frost can be off-putting, and she’s a harsh editor – she’ll probably make you question all your life choices while she’s at it – but trust yourself. You’re here, aren’t you?”

_ Yes, _ Marie thinks. _ I’m here _. “Thanks,” she tells Kitty, before making her way to the back of the newsroom.

Emma Frost’s office is pristine and perfect. Tasteful furniture, artfully arranged decorations, unstained white walls. The woman herself is also decked out all in white, her blonde curls unruffled, her fingers long and manicured. She reminds Marie of high school homecoming queens who also graduate as valedictorian and can somehow still find the time to tutor poverty-stricken children.

“About your first assignment,” she says, after the customary introductions and small talk that did nothing to put Marie at ease. “Are you following the Robin Hood case?”

“Yes?” Marie answers meekly.

“Good,” Frost says without missing a beat, as if she had known perfectly well what Marie would say. “I want you on it. Our crime correspondent just retired and everyone else has their plate full.”

“Okay,” Marie swallows. Emma Frost smiles at her from across the table.

_ Chin up, Marie _ , she thinks to herself. _ This could be your big break. _

* * *

Charles meets Hank upstairs, catching him near the entrance of the station (_ the entrance that Erik dropped him off at _) and puts on his best mask of disappointment.

“The results?” Hank asks. The eager expression on his face strikes Charles like a knife to the gut.

Charles shakes his head. “No match. Maybe he’s not in the database.”

* * *

“Hey,” Erik says, pressing a kiss to Charles’ cheek. It’s scratchy from his stubble, and Charles can’t help smiling.

“Where to? I’ve spent all afternoon trying to guess, but ‘comfortable clothing for the outdoors’ is a rather vague hint. Most likely thing I could think of is a picnic at a park.”

“You’re half right,” Erik grins, before adding, “Just get in the car.”

“You’d better not be kidnapping me,” Charles shoots back.

“Me? Never. You’re not a kid, are you? Now, _ abduction _, on the other hand…”

Charles snorts and punches Erik in the arm.

“My name eez Vladimir,” Erik continues in a terrible Russian accent, unfazed. “Your name eez Charles Xavier, da? Yes? I ‘ave been asged to make you ride in the car wiv me. I say asged. I mean, given very very much money.”

“Stop it, Erik,” Charles demands, but it’s hardly a firm demand, because he’s just barely keeping a straight face.

“Voo eez diz Erik? My name eez Vladimir.”

“Alright then, Vladimir,” Charles replies. “Who hired you?”

“Me, I cannod say. I am only a_ … _a… vow do you Americans say eed? Da, I am a henchman. A minion. A nofing! I do nod know.”

“You sure it’s not a man called Erik?”

“Erik? Erik voo? I already tell you, I do nod know any Erik.”

“Then do you know where we’re going, _ Vladimir _?”

“Oh! Dat one, I know, bud I cannod say. De man say, you bring Charles Xavier to deez place, den you get money. You dell Charles Xavier vhat place he going, you no get money. And I vant money.”

Charles is about to question him further, but by then they’re already pulling in to Central Park. Erik parks the car, then goes to open the trunk, pulling out a large bag and a folded mat.

“So I was right!” Charles crows triumphantly. “It _ is _ a picnic in a park.”

“That’s not all, though,” Erik replies, grasping Charles’ hand and leading him into the park.

“Oh,” Charles snarks. “I see Vladimir’s gone.”

“Vladimir? Who’s Vladimir?”

“I see how it is. You’re like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”

“Me? I’m hiding nothing. No Vladimir.”

Charles murmurs, “I think you’re hiding a lot, actually.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Charles forces a smile, before he catches sight of where Erik’s led them and his eyes widen in disbelief.

“Oh,” Charles murmurs. “Shakespeare in the Park! How did you get tickets? And on a _ Saturday _.”

“Not a very serendipitous series of events, actually,” Erik admits. “A colleague of mine lined up all morning for tickets, only for her mother to suddenly fall ill in the afternoon. She asked who wanted the tickets, and I snapped them up. Had to drive across town to get them from her, and now I owe her one, but I think it was worth it.”

Charles impulsively leans up and plants a kiss on Erik’s lips. “Thank you, Erik.”

They settle down for the play – _ Othello _ – and stay in a relaxed silence while it runs. Erik had packed sandwiches, salad, and pasta; Charles munches contentedly while leaning into Erik, occasionally leaning his head against Erik’s shoulder.

As Act V begins, however, it starts to drizzle. The play continues, but neither of them has ponchos, so water starts seeping into their clothes.

Midway through Act V, almost immediately after Othello strangles Desdemona, the drizzle becomes a downpour. The play stops, this time, and people around them start packing up as an apology message blasts over the speakers.

Charles takes the picnic mat and puts it over their head as a makeshift umbrella. “Let’s just stay here. Maybe the rain will stop soon and the play will start again.”

“Charles, a small stream of water just rolled down the back of the seat and into my pants. My ass is wet now.”

“Then adjust your pants. Isn’t it oddly nice? The sun’s nearly set, most of the people around us are gone… It’s just the two of us, sitting in the rain…”

“Getting drenched.”

“… And getting drenched. Isn’t it… romantic?”

“If you say so,” Erik grumbles, but he reaches an arm around Charles’ waist and pulls him closer, until they’re huddling under the picnic mat. Resting his chin on Charles’ sodden brown hair, he marvels at how their height difference means that Charles fits perfectly against his side.

Charles’ eyelids are drooping. “I hope the play starts again,” he mumbles, though he doesn’t sound sleepy. “It’s nearly over, anyways.”

“Mhmm,” Erik hums. Charles is right, he decides. It really is nice. Even if his socks now feel disgustingly heavy and sticky against his feet.

“Charles?” Erik says softly. Charles’ eyes are closed now, but Erik would describe him as “basking” more than “asleep”.

“Mmm?”

Erik adjusts his position so that he can grasp Charles’ damp hand with his own. “I love you.”

Charles’ eyelids flutter, but don’t open. A pause, and then he squeezes Erik’s hand. “I love you too.”

* * *

In the middle of the night Charles awakens when the bed suddenly dips.

“Erik?” He asks groggily. They’d gone back to Erik’s apartment after the play had ended (it’d restarted after the storm had slowed to a drizzle again). Luckily, Charles has been over so many times that he has a bag of overnight clothes in Erik’s closet.

A warm hand lands on his bare shoulder. “Go back to sleep,” Erik’s gravelly voice says. “I just got up to take a piss.”

“Mmm,” Charles groans, before snuggling closer to Erik with a contented sigh. He falls back to sleep almost immediately.

In retrospect, he should have paid more attention.

* * *

_ Robin Hood Strikes Again! _

_ By Marie D’ancanto _

_ In the wee hours of this morning, Warren Worthington Jr. allegedly found himself the latest victim of the mysterious thief known only as Robin Hood. _

_ According to Superintendent Moira MacTaggert of the New York City Police Department, the thief entered the premises of Worthington’s home between 1 am and 3am in the morning, and stole a bronze sculpture worth approximately $11 million. No other item is missing. _

_ As yet, there are no witnesses to the crime. Worthington’s private security systems were also allegedly hacked into and disabled. _

_ “We’re pretty sure it’s Robin Hood,” Superintendent MacTaggert said. “It completely fits his MO [Modus Operandi]. While the investigation has been slow-going so far, we are working our hardest and are making progress.” _

_ Robin Hood, like his namesake, is a thief who has a reputation for stealing from the rich and giving them back to the poor. Previous victims include oil magnate Sebastian Shaw and businessman Kurt Marko. Worthington, also a businessman, is the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Worthington Industries and is estimated to have a net worth of $30 billion. _

_ Worthington could not be reached for comment. _

_ The police are appealing for anyone who has information regarding the crime to step forward. _

* * *

Charles steps into the station. Behind him, he can hear the squeal of tyres as Erik’s car drives away.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He walks into the bullpen. His still-damp shoes squeak a little against the tiled floor.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The scene before him is a flurry of activity, but he barely notices it. The printer in the corner groans as it spits out page after page of God-knows-what. A phone rings, then another, then a third. The lift dings.

Breathe in.

_ Oh, Erik _.

“Charles!” Vaguely, he registers that Raven is shouting, shouting his name, shrieking in his ear while standing less than a metre away, the way she always does. “Charles Francis Xavier! Are you planning to just stand there all day and wait for Robin Hood to fall into your lap?”

Breathe out.

“Yeah,” Charles mutters to Raven. “Let me put my things down and I’ll be right there.”

Raven, practical and efficient as always, has already prepared a folder for him. He scans it while she catches him up on the key points of the case.

“Raven,” he says suddenly. “What if it’s not him?”

Her footsteps stutter to a stop. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Charles swallows. “What if some of the cases are copycats? He’s definitely been active for long enough that it’s a possibility, and he gets a fair amount of media attention. It’s likely that there’s someone out there imitating the original crimes.”

“So you’re saying that we should look into the possibility that the thefts aren’t all committed by the same person?”

“I’m saying that we should keep our options open.”

“I guess,” Raven concedes, though her voice is tinged with scepticism. “But there’s literally no evidence that anybody else is involved in this besides the original perp. And even if we know for a fact that there’re copycats, that doesn’t help us much.”

“You’re right,” Charles mutters. “Sorry, it was just a thought.”

Raven opens her mouth to say more, but they have already reconvened with the rest of the team and Charles is swarmed with reports and updates.

“Worthington claims that his security system is top-notch. And this isn’t the first time that he’s managed to circumvent high-quality security systems. I say that if he’s employed – which is likely – he probably does something to do with technology or engineering,” Sean Cassidy, the newest member of the team, says.

“That’s far too broad a field,” Charles points out. “How about we narrow it down to those working in security companies or are involved in the design of security systems? Look for people like that who have a criminal history. Preferably theft, especially crimes like petty theft.”

Sean nods, and types something on his tablet.

Alex Summers, brother of the Scott Summers that Raven likes to gossip with, speaks next. “I’ve been thinking about possible motives. So far he seems indiscriminate with his choice of victims, as long as they’re rich. So it’s likely not a personal vendetta. The fact that he gives the stolen items away means that he’s not doing it for money. Which means that he probably harbours some sort of hatred towards the rich.”

“Who doesn’t?” Raven quips. A short burst of laughter rings out around the group. Charles’ sounds especially mirthless to his own ears.

Alex continues, “I think it might be some sort of personal hatred. Not against any particular rich person, but towards the group as a whole. Maybe he’s poor, or has suffered some sort of financial-related injustice. So I was thinking, after Sean compiles his list, we can narrow it down by family background and history.”

“No,” Charles says carefully, drawing the word out, as if he were deep in thought. “It’s a bit too much of a stretch. He might be doing it for the media attention, and this is one way he can do it without doing something heinous like committing mass murder. Or maybe he just really likes Robin Hood. Either way, I don’t think it’s solid enough to go on, and I don’t want us to overlook the guy because he wasn’t screwed over by a rich person in the past.”

“Alright,” Alex says, voice small, and Charles nearly flinches at the disappointment in his voice.

The day goes on like this, the team alternating between working, offering various theories, and updating each other on what they’ve found. By noon Charles is already exhausted and he shoos everyone out to take a lunch break.

“You’re not going to get much work done if you’re tired and hungry,” he points out when they protest. “Come back from lunch refreshed and your productivity will be higher.”

“Are you coming for lunch with us, Charles?” Sean asks.

Charles shakes his head.

“He’s going on a date with his _ boyfriend _,” Raven cuts in.

Charles glares. “I’m not, actually.” He isn’t. He’d texted Erik earlier that he’d be busy and turned down his lunch offer. “I’m going to go check on Hank.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Raven snorts, but she leaves with the rest of the team, leaving Charles alone and hungry in the bullpen.

He heads down to the lab, where Hank, is, as usual, hunched over a keyboard doing God-knows-what.

“Go for lunch, Hank,” Charles calls out.

The young man in question jumps. “Detective Xavier!”

“Charles, please.” _ One thousand, seven hundred, and fifty-four _. “How are things?”

Hank frowns. “Couldn’t gather much evidence, as per usual. He seemed to have gone in and out with barely a trace. What little we have is still processing.”

Charles nods. “How about you go have your lunch? I’ll hold the fort for a while here.”

“Y-you sure? How about your own lunch, sir?”

“I’m not hungry,” Charles says. “Had a heavy breakfast. Go on, I’ll watch for the results. Or are you afraid I’ll burn the lab down?”

Hank’s eyes widen. “N-no, no, of course not! Sir –“

Charles laughs. “It was just a joke, Hank.”

“Al–alright, sir, if you don’t mind I’ll be going now, sir, er, thanks for your help!”

Charles waves his farewell cheerily, then sinks down into the chair and shuts his eyes the moment the door closes behind Hank.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His stomach grumbles. He hadn’t had the appetite to eat in the morning, even though Erik had still cooked him a nice, hearty breakfast despite being dragged up earlier than usual for a Sunday, what with Charles being called in to investigate the latest theft.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He opens his eyes and focuses his gaze on the assortment of machines in the lab. Here, alone, he can do almost anything with impunity. The security cameras aren’t clear enough to catch anything he does on those machines that he can’t wave away as part of his job.

Breathe in, breathe out.

_ The things I do for you _.

* * *

“And how are you settling in, Marie?”

Marie fidgets. Here she is, back in Emma Frost’s pristine office, detached from the hubbub of activity that is the newsroom. The woman in question sits across from her, her manicured, pristine fingernails tapping the desk, her white dress pristine and unwrinkled. Pristine, pristine, pristine.

Marie smoothes the folds of her skirt, brushes imaginary lint off her sleeves. Emma Frost’s fingernails continue tapping on the desk.

Is this what it feels like to be sent to the principal’s office? She wouldn’t know; she’d kept her head down in school, gotten good grades, been respectful to her teachers and kind to her fellow students. The only time she’d even seen the interior of the principal’s office was when she went to interview him for the school paper, but that time she was more excited than anything.

Teenaged Marie had loved writing for the school paper, and young-adult Marie had loved writing for the college paper just as much. She’d harboured dreams of being the next Nellie Bly, of uncovering the next Watergate, of having her stories adapted in film to be the next _ Spotlight _. Now she’s here, with a job in a well-respected paper and a seat in the newsroom, and yet her hands cannot stop shaking.

Emma Frost’s fingernails stop tapping. Marie suddenly realises that she’s expecting an answer.

“Fine, I guess?”

“That’s good to hear. Have you made any friends?” Emma Frost smiles, showing teeth white enough to be featured in a toothpaste advertisement. She’s perfected her smile – the corners of her mouth raise slightly, the corner of her eyes crinkle, she always shows her top teeth but never the bottom.

“I think I’m getting along well with a girl called Kitty?” Unconsciously, Marie scrunches her hands in the fabric of her skirt. _ Stop sounding so uncertain _ . _ Confidence _.

“Katherine Pryde? Yes, she’s a good sort. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely stopping her tone from rising at the end of the sentence.

“Now, I’ve been thinking about your coverage of the Robin Hood story so far. Of course, there’s nothing majorly wrong with the article, but you know what, Marie?”

“Yes?” Was her voice supposed to go higher at the end of that word? Yes, yes, she’s asking Emma Frost a question –

“I think you can do better.” Emma Frost leans closer, until one blonde curl dislodges itself from behind her ear and hangs down. She tucks it back with scarcely a pause, and just like that, she’s pristine again. Peace restored in the universe. “We need to stand out. We can’t just report on the same things every other news outlet is reporting. We can’t just publish the same details and same quotes. We need something _ more _. And, Marie, I have faith that you can do that.”

Emma Frost smiles again. Marie retracts her earlier thought that she’s fit for a toothpaste commercial; with her white teeth and red lipstick, she’s more suited for the starring role in a Snow White adaptation. She just needs to dye her hair black. Or maybe she’d be the first blonde Snow White, arousing both the outcries of fairytale traditionalists (is that a thing?) and hordes of men – and lesbian or bisexual women too, come on Marie, you mustn’t be heteronormative – 

“What do you think, Marie?”

She’s saying her name an awful lot, Marie notices. Marie, Marie, Marie.

“I’ll try,” she swallows. “Is there a – an angle you want me to look into?”

“Not particularly,” Emma Frost says, leaning back. “Just something that is new information and has broad implications. Maybe, something that hints at a cover-up. Or even details in the case that the police might not have noticed. Can you do that, Marie?”

_ Confidence _. “Yes,” Marie says, careful to give the word a downward inflection, and Emma Frost smiles with her pristine white teeth again.

* * *

Somehow, Erik thinks, their relationship has changed dramatically and yet remained exactly the same. They still meet for lunch a few times a week, they still talk about everything and anything, and Erik still feels closer to Charles than he’s ever felt to someone else, except maybe his mother. They’re still best friends, except now they’re best friends who make out on the sofa like giggling teenagers and who sleep in the same bed when they stay over at each other’s places.

It’s new, it’s familiar, and it’s the best thing Erik has ever experienced. When he wakes up beside Charles in the morning, he feels like he can stay there forever. When he picks Charles up from the station for their lunch date, he can almost forget how that station is filled with people desperately trying to throw him behind bars.

It’s perfect and Erik is the happiest he’s ever been. That is, until the shit hits the fan.

* * *

_ What Happens When an Estranged Stepson Has to Find Justice For His Stepfather? _

_ By Marie D’ancanto _

_ Last month, Marko Pharmaceuticals CEO Kurt Marko was one in a string of billionaires who were mysteriously robbed only to have their possessions (in Marko’s case, a Picasso priced at $8.5 million) reappear in the hands of the poor in this country. The perpetrator, quickly dubbed “Robin Hood”, has yet to be found. _

_ And that’s a situation that may not change soon. In a startling new update, it has been uncovered that Marko is the estranged stepfather of Charles Xavier, the lead detective on the case. Sources close to the family reveal that the pair did not part well, with Marko disowning Xavier. After severing all ties between them, Xavier was, supposedly, left without a single cent of the family fortune. _

_ Furthermore, it is alleged that Xavier had tensions with many in his family’s social circle, which include the likes of businessman Warren Worthington Jr. and oil magnate Sebastian Shaw, both of whom have also been the target of “Robin Hood”. Xavier is said to have a “moral opposition” to these individuals. _

_ Concerns have hence been raised that Xavier may not be the best person to handle this case due to a conflict of interest. Moreover, it has been suggested that the case’s seeming slow pace of progress is due to Xavier purposefully hindering it to avoid justice for those whom he seems to have such disdain for. _

_ A source close to the family says, “If I know Charlie [Xavier], he’d definitely prefer Kurt to be in prison.” _

_ The New York City Police Department has yet to comment on this issue. _

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Charles says, his voice low. “Moira, you can’t believe this. There isn’t a grain of truth in this, except that Kurt is my stepfather. But I don’t let our relationship hinder my work. You know that.”

“I do,” Superintendent Moira MacTaggert says. “But what do I say to this horde of vultures outside?”

Charles had heard the media being described as vultures before, but the comparison had never felt so apt: they’d descended upon him the moment he’d stepped out of his apartment building (how they even found his address he would never know), chased after him his entire commute to the station, and barely managed not to follow him inside. Even now, they were clamouring outside Moira’s office, and their collective shouts are so loud that they can be heard through the glass panes of Moira’s shut window.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Moira starts after a pause. “I know you’ve been working on this case for a long time, but I’ll have to take you off. We’ll need to conduct an internal investigation – don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll clear it – and I’ll transfer someone in to take over you as lead investigator.”

Charles sits numbly. He can’t deny that it’s the best possible solution. “Don’t get a new guy in,” he says. “It’ll take them too long to familiarise themselves with the case. Promote Raven instead. I trust her, and I think she’s ready to lead.”

“Alright then,” Moira nods. “Darkholme replaces you. But that’ll leave the team one member short.”

“I think they’ll be fine. I have faith in them.”

Moira nods again, then starts shuffling around the papers on her desk. “I’ll need to prepare a statement for the press.”

Charles stands. He knows a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Moira calls after him as he walks out of her office.

He doesn’t reply; he barely hears her, her voice somehow as small and indistinct as the countless voices outside the window.

* * *

Marie is back in Emma Frosts’s office. She’s finding herself uncomfortably familiar with its white walls, and not least because nothing in the office seems to change – not the furniture, not the decorations on the walls, not the sheaves of papers on the desk. Marie’ll even swear that the lone photo frame on the desk is in the exact same position everyday, tilted at the exact same angle from the edge of the desk. The only thing different is Emma Frost herself. Specifically, her smile.

This time, it’s genuine. In fact, her eyes are positively sparkling, and she’s looking at Marie like she’s a valuable art piece.

“I knew you had it in you, Marie! Absolutely amazing, what you’ve done – all our competitors are scrambling to pick up the story – I need you back on work immediately, oh, we’ll probably be able to get at least another exclusive from this, our sales have been positively rocketing – ”

Deep breaths, Marie thinks to herself. Confidence. “Actually, Ms Frost?”

Emma Frost breaks off breathlessly. “Yes?”

Marie unfolds the piece of paper that she’d been trying her best not to scrunch up. Her hands shake as she lays the paper on Emma Frost’s desk. “I’m tendering my resignation today.”

* * *

“How’s it going?” Charles asks, setting a mug of coffee on Raven’s desk. Still her own desk – she’d been offered his after taking over the case, but had merely raised her eyebrow at Moira before defiantly striding to her old desk. Charles loves her like a sister.

She smiles up at him, a warm smile, but it doesn’t hide her darkening eyebags. These few days have been tough on her – the increased public pressure to solve the case, the reduction of one member of the team, and the personal stress experienced due to her closeness to Charles would have been difficult even for a seasoned detective. Add to that how she’s had to take over Charles’ responsibilities in the middle of a case and take charge of the equally devastated Alex and Sean, and, well, Charles isn’t sure how she’s not collapsed yet.

“Thanks,” she says, taking a sip of the coffee. A corner of her desk holds two other empty mugs. “As usual, he hasn’t left many clues for us to find. Sean is still working through his list to find anyone who fits the description, was in the country during all the thefts, and doesn’t have their fingerprints in our database. Then we call them in and compare their prints against the ones from last time. It’s been slow-going, though, and we’ve yet to find any matches.”

“Keep at it,” Charles encourages. “Anything you can tell me about the newest case?”

Raven frowns, then glances over her shoulder. “You know I’m not allowed to tell you anything. By right you shouldn’t even be here.”

“I know,” Charles sighs. “It’s just… I’m feeling so helpless here, watching you all working through the night while I sit around and all I can do is bring you coffee… I’m itching to do something, to _ help _.”

Raven scrunches her eyes shut. “Fuck it,” she says. “This whole thing is bullshit. You know it, I know it, the team knows it, hell, even MacTaggert knows it! In a few weeks you’ll be back on the team anyways. What’s the point in waiting until then?”

With that, she digs around her desk and drags out two manila files. “This is all the evidence we’ve collected from the last theft. We don’t have much – the most crucial evidence we have is still the fingerprint from last time, but that’s been a dead end so far. We might run it through the system again, just to make sure, if we really can’t find anything else.”

Charles flips through one file. “Hank’s not done processing the evidence yet, is he? Try not to overtax him, we don’t have the budget to replace him.”

“I know. But this case is going nowhere! We never get anything new. Now we’re trying to set up some sort of system with other potential victims so that we might be able to catch him red-handed. But you know how it is with billionaires – how dare you assume my security system is anything other than top-notch, why would I trust you when you still haven’t caught him yet, you incompetent shits, look at the sorry state of our police force today, yada yada. God, I wish this case would be over already.”

“Who –“

“Xavier!”

Charles looks up, eyes meeting Moira’s raised eyebrows, and smiles sheepishly. “Yes?”

“You know you’re not allowed here.”

“Just delivering some coffee, Ma’am.”

“Do you want me to pay you an intern’s wages too?”

“No?”

“Then don’t let me catch you here again. You have your own work to do.”

Charles stands, and smiles ruefully at Raven. “Paperwork calls.”

“Enjoy your desk duty,” Raven says mirthlessly, sharing a look of mutual despair. “I’ll try to catch you up on any updates.”

“Thanks,” Charles mutters, but he can already feel his mood dropping. “I hate this feeling of helplessness. What’s the point of being a cop if I can’t do anything about my cases?”

“You don’t say,” Raven sighs.

* * *

“Charles?”

He looks up blearily from his work.

Erik stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded across his chest. “It’s past two, Charles, come to bed.”

“I can’t, I need to finish reading through this by tomorrow – “

“And it’s all going to be for nothing if you collapse from sleep deprivation.” Erik pads across the carpeted floor and sets two warm hands on Charles’ shoulders, massaging gently. “Come on, I can’t sleep without you beside me, I’ve grown so used to it.”

Charles smiles despite himself. “Soon, I promise.”

“What’s this, anyway? Aren’t you supposedly off the case?”

“Raven is illicitly passing me the case files. But I can’t look through them all during the day since I have my own assigned work, hence – this.”

“I think,” Erik says, bending down to press a kiss on Charles’ hair, “I think you should just drop the case entirely. It’s causing you so much stress, this weird in-out thing you have going on where you’re technically off but basically still on and – and it’s not healthy, Charles. Just leave the case to the rest of the team.”

Charles sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore, Erik. We both know the truth.”

“What?”

Charles turns around in the chair, shaking Erik’s hands off his shoulders. He meets Erik’s eye (which unfortunately means that he has to crane his neck almost painfully since he’s still sitting and Erik’s standing, but he’s too tired to stand up and move somewhere else, so his neck will just have to deal with it), and says, “ You’re Robin Hood. I know it, you obviously know it. There’s no point pretending otherwise. We found your fingerprint at Worthington’s house. The only reason you’re not sitting in a cell right now is because I’ve been covering your ass.”

Erik opens his mouth to speak, and normally Charles would feel bad cutting him off, but today he finds that he can’t give a fuck anymore. “No. You don’t get to say a thing. You don’t know how much stress it’s bringing me, trying to keep them off your trail – my team isn’t stupid, contrary to whatever the tabloids are saying. Do you know how hard it was to look Alex in the eye and tell him that his plan was unfeasible, even though he’s looking in entirely the right direction? Do you know how painful it is to see Raven, watch her shoulders sag lower and lower by the day while this entire time you’re _ right here _ ? And this shit about me and my stepfather – now I have to resort to reading the case files and suffering through migraines at one in the morning. God, if only they knew what I was really doing,” Charles laughs, almost bitterly. “Meanwhile Moira stands staunchly by my side, defending me at every turn, and it kills me inside knowing that _ the papers are right _ . I _ am _ a dirty cop. I _ am _ obstructing justice. I’m everything I swore never to be.”

Erik takes a deep breath in, then out. He looks like he’s about to cry, or scream, or both, and _ God, _Charles loves that face so much, it’s making him ache.

“And heaven knows why I put myself through this,” Charles continues. “Apparently I love you enough to put my career and my freedom on the line for you. For _ you _, Erik. And now you come and tell me to drop the case – and what? Don’t pretend that you’re not doing it in part because you don’t want me to find out that it’s you. If you were truly just concerned about me, and just that, you’d have stopped by now.”

“Charles,” Erik starts, “I am sorry for what you’ve had to go through and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. But I need you to understand that I don’t regret anything that I’ve done. The people I stole from deserved everything they got and more. Exploiting the poor and weak of the country – they’re the scum of the earth, and yet they sit on their polished chairs, wiping their asses with money, strutting around like their actions aren’t directly causing millions to go into debt paying their medical bills, forcing them to migrate or die – “

“So this is about your mother,” Charles says softly. He’s largely calmed down from his rant.

Erik blinks. His breaths are coming out short and fast. The blue-grey of his eyes burn with intensity. “Yes. It’s about my mother. But it’s also about the millions in this country who are suffering right now.”

“I understand,” Charles replies, drawing the words out slowly on his tongue. Part of him wants to fight, wants to shout that Erik is being insufferably selfish even while he stands on his pedestal of morality, but he pushes that thought away, because he’s a mature adult and he’s determined to be rational about this.

So he bites his lips and continues, “But while I sympathise with your reasons, this isn’t a sustainable or effective course of action. You’re victimising the very people you’re trying to condemn. And while your actions are undoubtedly attention-grabbing and dramatic, the good you’ve managed to do isn’t enough.”

Erik opens his mouth to protest, but again Charles cuts him off. “You’ve said it yourself: _ millions _ of people are struggling. How much wealth did you even manage to redistribute? While risking being arrested? I think you should just turn yourself in. Let it go, Erik. It’s not worth it.”

“No,” Erik snaps. “Fine, I’ll concede that I haven’t made as much impact as I had hoped. But I’m not going to turn myself in. If I do, your career is ruined.”

“Yes,” Charles says, tiredly. “But it’s the right thing to do. And if my career is ruined – well, I deserve it. You forget, Erik. I’m a dirty cop now.”

“No,” Erik says obstinately. “If you do that, if you’re ruined along with me, people like Shaw and Worthington and your stepfather will be vindicated. The justice system will crack down hard on us while nothing happens to them – and how is that justice? You said it’d be right for me to turn myself in. But it’s not right for them to walk away while we end up behind bars either.”

Charles sighs again. “Alright, then. But do you at least agree to – to put a stop to this Robin Hood thing?”

Erik pauses.

“My team will figure it out eventually,” Charles urges. “I can only hold them off for so long. Especially if you’re careless and leave something incriminating, which will happen eventually. But if you stop now - with the amount the evidence the team currently has, they’re hitting a brick wall, particularly if I continue trying to influence the direction their investigation takes.”

“So you’re saying that we should just continue with the status quo?”

“Do we have another choice?“

Erik hesitates. “But I think you should be less proactive. Stop taxing yourself like this. You don’t have to read every single word of every single case file. Can’t you just keep an ear on what they’re doing and only step in if they’re getting too close?”

Charles nods, saying, “Alright. You’ll stop, I’ll distance myself from the case, and let’s hope it goes cold.”

“Yeah,” Erik says, then leans down to press a kiss on Charles’ forehead. “Now that that’s settled, you really should come to bed.”

* * *

_ A year later _

“Marie!” Kitty stands, enveloping her in her arms and squeezing tightly. “How’s the new job?”

Marie smiles. “Good, I think. It’s still pretty competitive, but I think it’s less cutthroat. I’m more comfortable in this new environment, I think.”

“That’s good to hear!” Kitty chirps, stirring her coffee. Since Marie resigned, they’ve been meeting up semi-regularly – as much as their busy schedules allowed them to – for brunch, or lunch, or coffee, whatever works. “What’s the work like?”

“Haven’t had to ruin anyone’s life yet,” Marie laughs. It’s easy for her to joke about it now, but thinking back to it still hurts – the way hordes of reporters surrounded Charles Xavier, clambering outside the station, outside his house, all while Emma Frost had blabbered excitedly about readership and congratulated her on a job well done. It had all gotten too much.

Kitty laughs too, and they spend the rest of the lunch chatting about their lives. Towards the end of the hour, though, Marie suddenly starts. “Sorry Kitty, but I’ve got to go.”

“So soon?”

“I have an interview right after this. I’m quite excited.”

“Oh?” Kitty asks. “With whom?”

“The new guy running for Congress. Erik Lehnsherr. He’s still one of the more unknown candidates, but his campaign is gaining traction almost shockingly fast.”

Kitty nods slowly. “I’ve heard of him. But not much – I don’t think he’s had much of a career in politics before this, has he?”

“No. Apparently he was an engineer. I don’t know what happened to cause him to change career paths so suddenly.”

“That’s what interviews are for, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Marie stands. “Catch you later, Kitty!”

Kitty waves bye to her, adding, “Are we still on next week?”

She smiles. “Definitely.”

**Author's Note:**

> erik wins the election, obviously. running for office was a desperate attempt to enact change at the top, but he’s good and surprisingly, really enjoys his new job.
> 
> the robin hood case turns cold after six months, following which it’s featured on buzzfeed unsolved, where ryan strongly insinuates that charles was robin hood. 
> 
> On a more serious note, I thought about including some sort of commentary on the fucked up police system in America, where there are so many cases of superiors covering up for their men in internal investigations (which is uncomfortably close to the situation Moira and Charles are in here) but erm. I finished writing this yesterday due to poor time management so that idea went out the window.


End file.
